The Black Widower
by namelesspanda
Summary: November 1912. A possible but unlikely explanation of 1x03 involving Violet as a mysterious figure who engages in knife fights and hand-to-hand combat. Nods to Chuck inside but a completely different tone from both Downton and Chuck.


**A/N: Frea O'Scanlin, fellow DA **_**and**_** Chuck fan, and I have written one-shots about Mary and/or Violet doing flying kicks and throwing knives (like Sarah Walker, for all of you Chuck fans…are there any of you out there in the DA world?). Here's my take, a backstory to 1x03 that is **_**not**_** meant to be taken seriously at all. A much different tone than either Chuck or Downton. Thanks for reading.**

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"_I think he's dead…no, I'm sure he's dead." _

"_But…how?" Anna asked in bewilderment._

* * *

November 1912

"Mary's _far_ too taken with the diplomat's son, I hear," Violet said, irritated, as her butler placed a cup of tea on her desk. "It's mid-afternoon, I don't suppose you could have him dead and gone by dinner?" She lifted the cup from the saucer and sniffed its contents. "Not the usual blend. I'm disappointed."

"No?" said Hamilton in a tone sharper than his usual weariness. He was a middle-aged man with a tired face, large nose, and greying hair, Violet's recently acquired assistant recommended to her by one of her trusted…allies. Allies could be a great deal more than friends.

"So the Turkish—" Violet began, stooping to reach for a file in a drawer, but stopped when she heard a distinctive click from across the room. She slowly shifted her gaze to her butler, who was carefully pointing a revolver at her.

"You know just as well as I do," Hamilton said in an oddly soft, cynical voice, finger poised above the trigger. "Turkey's signature is needed for the Albanian talks. We can't just have the ambassador's son drop dead…milady." The formality was a mockery upon his lips.

Violet surreptitiously moved her left hand over the edge of her desk. "I hardly think it's possible," she said scornfully.

The butler chuckled, waving the weapon in her direction. "I wouldn't put it past you to kill a man…just to save your precious granddaughter's reputation."

"_I_ don't want him eliminated, I was merely thinking aloud," Violet retorted sharply. "Maybe," she added as an afterthought.

"Well, you see," said Hamilton slowly, and with that he fired a shot into the wall directly above Violet's head. "I can't have that."

Violet sniffed. "It's always rather disappointing when one's butler tries to kill you," she said to no one in particular. "I shall have to dismiss you after. For poisoning my tea."

Hamilton started, surprised, and the Dowager Countess hurled a small knife at him with astonishing ferocity. He yelled as the blade sank into his hand, a wild shot firing from his gun, and sank facedown to the floor.

When he finally dared to look up, there was a black shoe on his back, pinning him to the ground, and a gold-tipped cane swinging fast towards the side of his head. And then everything was dark.

* * *

"Mr. Russell," said Violet as politely as she could whilst ignoring the limp figure on her sitting room floor. "How is Haxby, tell me."

"It's fine, thank you," replied the tall, burly man as he removed his hat. "I hear you had a small…issue with your butler?"

"He seemed ready to _kill_ when I threatened the diplomat," Violet said indignantly. "In passing. I wasn't even going to carry it out, and he was set to pull the trigger. Something's not right."

"It's not. I was just on my way to speak to you, Lady Grantham," said Russell darkly. "About—"

"Sit down!" commanded Violet sharply.

Russell obeyed reluctantly. "Have you ever heard of the Black Widower?"

"What is that, a male spider?" The Dowager shuddered. "Or do you mean the serial killer?"

"The murderer," Russell explained gruffly, crossing and uncrossing his legs in his hesitation. "That's what we call him, anyway."

"He kills his mates," Violet recalled, a disgusted look passing over her face.

"Precisely. He's killed in four countries."

"It's so…undignified," said the Dowager Countess. She struck her cane imperiously on the floor for effect before continuing. "Those poor girls. But surely—four countries, isn't there a common link? One that stands out?"

"There is," Russell confirmed. "We weren't sure before, but a duke's daughter was found in London a few days ago at the same time that—well, we nailed him."

"But _who_?" Violet asked curiously.

Russell fixed her with a stern stare. "Don't do anything rash."

"I can't guarantee that," she retorted. "But now you really must tell me."

"The Turk," he said shortly. "…your family's houseguest. Hamilton here was probably his accomplice."

"They know who I am!" Her voice was nearly shrill. "And if he's such a threat, then why don't you—"

"Arrest him? We can't," Russell said with a grim laugh. "It's hardly a case in court. And it wouldn't go through, not with the talks with Albania and Turkey being such a big figure. It'd be far too big of a scandal."

"But he's a murderer!" Violet argued, standing indignantly. "He can't just run free."

"I'm afraid…he can, for the moment," Russell said apologetically, rising as well. "I really must be going, milady. I thought you should know."

* * *

"Won't it hurt?" _Yes, it will,_ Violet thought as she leaned against the wall of the corridor. "Is it safe?" The usually cutting voice of her granddaughter sounded so vulnerable—_Heavens, no, it's not._

"Trust me." _I wouldn't._

Violet was disgusted by the ensuing sounds. Closing her eyes in an attempt to shut it all out, she endured a few moments until she was sure the murderer was vulnerable before throwing open the door. "Do get off of her," she said with false politeness, as the unclothed killer looked up, still clutching her granddaughter. "Within the next day, if you please," she added, eyes narrowing as Mary's widened in horror.

"Granny!" she exclaimed, her voice abnormally high.

The look in Pamuk's eyes was wild, possessive even, Violet noted as she stepped further into the room. "Go on." She waved her cane vaguely. "Off with you."

"Oh, I don't think so," the diplomat answered rather undiplomatically.

"Mary—come here—now," Violet ordered.

"I'm not done with you," Pamuk growled, gripping Mary tighter. Violet wrinkled her nose.

Mary scrambled from his grasp, dragging her covers with her. "Mr. Pamuk!" she said sharply, and Violet pointed her stick at him as she kicked his robe across the floor in his direction.

"If you could put that on—I'm getting quite a headache," Violet said delicately, averting her eyes from his unclothed body.

"I'm not sure I care what an old batty like you thinks," Pamuk answered rudely, his accented voice softly murderous. Reaching down swiftly into the tangled robe at his feet, he pulled a rather large knife from the pocket and pointed it at Violet. Mary gasped and clutched her covers more tightly around her.

"Mr. Pamuk!" she said again, this time in a near whisper.

"_I'm _not sure I would do that if I were you," Violet quipped as she drew her small pistol with her right hand and waved her left dismissively. "Quiet. You wouldn't want to wake the servants." She paused. "Though…it appears that Mr. Pamuk here has already warned you of that." Violet knew without looking that Mary's face was filled with terror.

"_You_ wouldn't dare fire that," Pamuk said, circling the small space between Mary's bed and vanity as Violet mirrored him, their weapons raised. "Not here. It'd wake the whole house."

"Perhaps not," Violet answered airily. "But…one can never be certain."

"Really?" It was a challenge.

Violet swiped her cane under his leg. While the killer didn't fall, he let out a grunt and stumbled for his balance, weakening his grip on his knife, which she swiftly knocked from his hand. As the metal clattered past to the floor, Violet nudged the man in his exposed stomach and slammed her cane into the side of his arm with violent fury and a triumphant glare. There was the rather satisfying sound of gold-inlaid wood hitting flesh as Pamuk grunted, countering with a punch that tipped Violet's hat and pushed her gun from her grasp. Her eyes darkened angrily and she pushed him, hard, but he fought back and forced her to the floor with an oddly satisfied smile.

"Is that really the best you can do?" Violet asked, panting. She pulled the knife from the ground and slashed it expertly in his face, and used the opportunity to rise again. He met her next attack with a block and kicked the knife away, sending it spiraling across the floor of the room. Violet resorted to the classic defense and slapped the murderer square across the face, kicking him in his sensitive area and sending him tumbling to the carpet, wincing. She held him down with a foot and turned finally to her granddaughter. "Mary—pass me the knife," she commanded.

"Granny!" Mary cried faintly. "I'm—"

"He's a _serial killer_, my dear," said her grandmother harshly.

Mary's hand flew to her mouth and a strangled, inhuman noise escaped her. "A—" And then she was kneeling and frantically reaching for the weapon as her fingers fumbled, trying not to retch.

Pamuk smirked as his hand closed around the pistol. And then Violet was thrown to the floor again as he stood, brandishing the weapon so it barely grazed the side of the Dowager's face. "Don't cross me," he warned as he pressed the gun into Violet's temple.

A blade whooshed past his ear and both Violet and Pamuk looked up just in time to see Mary's arm outstretched as the knife lodged itself into the wall, and shock evident on her face.

Violet took advantage of Pamuk's momentary surprise and smacked him with her cane, bringing him to the ground at the foot of the bed as she took up the gun again, advancing slowly. "_How _did you know who I am?" she demanded. "You sent that butler here before you. How could you have—"

Pamuk let out a sarcastic laugh as he inched backwards and pulled a small pill from the mess that used to be his robe. He held it up for a moment, and time seemed to slow as both women registered its significance—Violet frowning, Mary's eyes widening.

"I was going to use this on _you_, my darling," Pamuk said, looking at Mary, who seemed to shrink into a corner. And then he threw it back, swallowing roughly.

"No—" Violet started, stepping forward, but it was too late. Pamuk fell unceremoniously on his face, Mary gave a gasp of horror, and Violet sat with an exhausted sigh, leaning into the legs of a chair.

"Granny—" Mary began weakly after a few painfully silent minutes.

"_No_," her grandmother said vehemently, leaning heavily on her stick. "Nothing more."

"But—he's—I'll-have to move him." The wordless implication caused Violet to take a deep breath and close her eyes.

"I'll move him to the bed and no more," Violet decided. "_I'll_ drop dead if I carry him further than that."

"But—what do I—?" Mary said incredulously.

"Fetch your maid. They're always terribly loyal," her grandmother instructed. "Have her carry him back to his side of the house, but before she comes"—here Violet held up a warning hand—"rinse his mouth with water to eliminate the poison. And…never speak of this." She gave a sympathetic half-smile to her granddaughter. "You wouldn't be the first to make a mistake, my dear."

Mary nodded gratefully, almost timidly. "Granny—"

"You're quite welcome," Violet interrupted, shuddering as she reached for the limp arms of the dead body. "And choose your beaux more carefully. For my sake."

* * *

**The End**

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**This was not meant to be taken seriously, and I hope you…well…didn't hate it. It was very strange for me to write :P Please leave your thoughts.**


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